A Deal with the Devil
by FettsVett
Summary: The Opera has reopened and Giry is determined to avoid the disaster of three years past. When she receives a letter from him requesting only one companion for a lifetime of peace she cannot refuse. Madame Giry will deliver that companion to him in the form of Nicolette. After all, what are the needs of one, compared to the needs of the many?
1. Chapter 1

**_Prologue:_**

Nicolette could dance and sing moderately well. She did not have the voice of an angel, nor did she have the dancing skills of some of the other girls, but madam Giry was sure that Erik could teach her to do both in time. If her spirit did not break completely that was. The girl was an innocent, undeserving of such a fate, sweet and kind, always willing to help others no matter how mean or cruel they were to her. Giry knew she would never make it in the world of the opera, not unless she was willing to slit some throats and step on some shoulders. And that was perhaps one of the facts she had of selecting the young girl for him. She met his requirements, she was young and virginal, and she had no future here anyway.

When the letter had slowly fallen from the rafters, fluttering like a leaf in the wind, aided only by the thick wax stamp, and landed at her feet, she had felt sick, like the opera had crashed in on her and crushed her entire being into dust. She stood there alone in the middle of the night, coming back from checking on the girls in their dormitories, and prayed to the lord above to hear her prayers. She prayed whatever lay in that letter would be merciful, forgiving. Though she knew Erik well now, and she knew any mercy, and forgiveness that had remained in him after years of torture and torment, had vanished when Christine left. She had kept the letter, and as she sat in her room, preparing to lead the sweet girl down into the depths of hell, she read it again for strength.

_Madam, _

_The events of three years previous have left me grievously stricken with a broken heart and a thirst for vengeance. The opera, the place of my despair, my refuge, should never have been reopened. I find myself overcome with hatred for every being that steps into my home, and I will begin my torment again if my anger is not somehow abated. You can save your girls, Madam, and the stage hands, and the new owners, and the patrons, from a terrible fate if you will meet the terms I lay before you in this letter. Give me one. A single companion and I will disappear into the night. A young, beautiful, girl I can share my days and nights with, a girl that may temper some of the pain that is ravaging my body from the inside out. A girl who can dance and sing for me when I wish it. A Girl that will not look on me with horror and revulsion, though I know this will be a hard term to meet, I shall not consider our contract breached if she is unable to hide her disgust from me. If you do this for me, give me my very own Angel, one whose wings I can clip and never let go, then I shall live with you quietly, coming out only in silence to observe my favorite operas. No interference for the rest of my days. _

_I eagerly away your response, _

_Erik_

_Post Script: She is to look nothing like Christine. _

Madam Giry nodded and folded the letter, placing it in her breast pocket. It would act as armor against her conscious. To save so many she would sacrifice one. Give one to the Opera Ghost and he would leave them all alone. Many sleepless nights were to come she knew, but how many sleepless nights had Erik spent, alone in his tomb, weeping, craving only some form of human affection, companionship. Did the girl deserve to suffer because Erik deserved some peace? No, the girl would be subjected to his lusts, his darker fantasies, all that had been denied him for so many years, but it was for the greater good. And perhaps her gentle nature, her sweet compassion for those around her, would temper his rage and inspire gentleness in him. Eventually Giry's guilt would pass, and life would go on, and the safety of all triumphs the happiness of one.

She found Nicolette in the dormitory, trying to teach one of the younger girls a simple plie`. She smiled and encouraged her, but corrected her gently with a soft tone that had the girl trying even harder. Giry pinched her lips together as she watched the girl's sweet face brighten when the little child finally mastered it. Her blonde hair was in a neat bun on top of her head, as all the dancers were required to have, and her eyes clear and blue. When she saw Madam Giry she stood at attention, looking like a little lost doe. Giry swallowed, finding both ease and sickness at the sight. She was obedient, responsive to authority. Erik would like that, but whether that would be her undoing or her survival Giry did not know.

"Nicolette Pinot," she said and watched the girl pale in fear. "Come with me."

The girl nodded and followed. It was late, just ten minutes before curfew, but she was still dressed in her dancing clothing. She gripped her white skirt nervously as they walked down the halls together. She did not ask what they were doing or where they were going. She was always good like that. Silent and obedient. Hopefully Erik would not completely destroy her. Her feet made little soft pitter patter on the floor as she follower Giry and it nearly ripped her heart out. Only just sixteen, stuck in between the mind of a child and the body of a woman. What horrors lay before her now? What was Giry about to deliver her into? It did not do anything to help ease Giry's guilt that this beautiful blonde haired, blue eyes cherub was dressed all in white, about to be handed over to the devil himself. If only the world could have been kinder. If only Christine might have loved him back. Giry feels Nicolette hesitate as they begin to descend lower. Her lower lip trembles slightly. Her eyes wide with fear and trepidation. She looks at Giry, questions in her eyes, but Giry only beckons her forward.

"Am I being sent away, Madame?" she asks and Giry feels her throat constrict. "I can get better I promise, Madame. I will work even harder. It's my ankles. I broke one when I was a child, and I know it's not an excuse, but I will get better I promise."

"You are not being sent away," she lies. The girls fears seem abated, but she is still curious.

"Why are we going into the catacombs? I thought these were off limits," she asks in her soft voice.

"They are, but tonight I must show you something. Just come with me and be silent," Giry tells her, unable to stand the innocent trust and questions. She leads her deeper into the maze, the tunnels the girl could never hope to remember even if she did escape Erik's clutches. These would be her prison walls. Little else would be needed to stop her, though Erik would not doubt add precautions. He would not let this one leave him. Not this time. With each turn they took she could feel Nicolette's fear grow, her uneasiness. When they finally arrived at their destination (Giry's destination anyway, Nicolette would be going further), Nicolette's lower lips trembles, her eyes wet.

"I don't like it down here," she says softly. She shivers. It is cold and wet and she is only in her thin ballerina costume. Her shoes are nearly soaked through and her toes are freezing.

"It is just through there," Giry tells her, pointing at a doorway. Nicolette frowns.

"What is?" she sked and Giry motions for her to go through. She forces a pleasant smile to her face.

"A surprise for you, Mademoiselle, for all the hard work you have been doing."

The way her eyes lit up, the smile it brought to her pink lips, it broke Giry's heart.

"Truly? Oh, Madame, I have been trying so hard," she smiled and Giry could only motion for her to go through the door again. She did not trust herself to speak. Her voice would get caught in her throat, resulting in a strangled moan that better represented the conflict tearing her apart inside.

_She is just one girl, _Madame Giry thinks as she follows Nicolette to the door. _One girl and I will save hundreds of lives possibly. He will not hurt her to badly, not if she does what he wants. _

Nicolette steps through the doorway, trying to look around in the darkness. Madame Giry sets her torch aside and grips the heavy, steel door. Nicolette is confused but tries to get her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"I cannot see anything, Madame," she calls softly, stepping blindly into the darkness. Giry sees her, a little white form in the blackness. She suddenly knew her fate. She would be consumed by him, by his darkness, his anger and hate. Her innocence would fade and in turn there would be nothing but black. Giry choked back a little sob. "Madame?"

Giry pushes on the heavy steel door with all her might. It screeches in protest, a long echo rattling through the bowels of the Opera. Nicolette whirls around, but Giry cannot see the terror on her face. Finally the door dislodges and swings shut, a deafening clamor filling her ears. She can hear only Nicolette's faint cries through the heavy door, the little banging of her fragile fists. She's crying through, that Giry can tell. The girl belonged to him now. Giry could only hope that she had made the right decision.

()

A/N: Let me know what you think please! I hope to update the next chapter relatively soon because I have about half of it written, though most updates won't be so fast.

Please Review!

(PS: Other chapters will be much longer, this is only the prologue.)


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter One: **_

Nicolette was left in the dark, the thundering sound of the slamming door echoing in her ears, and as she listened she felt the cold seep so deep into her bones that she doubted she would ever be warm again. She moved to the door, thinking, praying, willing, it was some sort of terrible mistake. But the door did not open, no matter how hard she banged her fists against the steel door, no matter how loud she screamed. She was surrounded by darkness, drowning in it. Tears dripped from her cheeks and between her lips filling her mouth with the taste of salt.

Hearing nothing from the other side of the door she turned her head, hoping her eyes would adjust to the darkness. But there was no light in the darkness for her eyes to soak in, there was only darkness. She groped along the wall looking, cold, damp and hard. She cried out when she touched a sharp bump on the hard stone, her finger slowly dripping with hot blood. She could feel it on her hand and it stuck to her fingers, black and sticky. She does not want to get it on her white practice outfit. It is the only one she owns.

She slid to the floor holding her arm out in front of her. She cried softly, pressing her body into the hard wall behind her for any sort of security she could manage. She heard a noise to her left and she began to tremble violently, her teeth chattering, goosebumps covering her creamy skin. Cold, sickening dread filled her body and she was rooted to the spot, trapped, a prisoner in the darkness unable to move. It was from the cold yes, but mostly fright. She waited, staring out into the darkness, her breath coming out in loud bursts. She was afraid to call out, but afraid not too, afraid someone will both find her and not find her. What if it is a stage hand, a man that works at the opera that will bring her to safety and she does not call out, letting him pass in the night?

"Hello?" she called, her voice a soft, weak, plea. She blinked rapidly, thinking she might see a shape in the distance, but it is only darkness. Complete, utter, darkness. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears still squeezing out. There was no response and she lowered her face to her knees, curling up, trying to will herself somewhere else, back in her bed, back on stage. She loved being on stage, even the little parts she had. When she danced she felt free, alive, like there was nothing wrong with the world. She wanted to be there now, dancing and happy, with the lights on her. The light, warmth, safety. She hugged her arms around herself, no longer caring if she stains her dress with her blackening blood. It would make no difference now.

She took a long, deep breath, and got to her feet, clinging to the hard stone wall behind her. If she does not push forward not it will be the end. She needs to fight while she has the strength left in her limbs. She continued to grope along the wall, thinking she might find another door, an exit, a way to the top. It is hopeful thinking, but she refuses to think of the worst, the very cold, hard, truth that she might die down here. She had a small part coming up in the next opera. She was out on the stage all by herself at one point, running around and pretending to be afraid. It was her big break, her chance to show Madame Giry that she could be a real dancer, a real ballerina. Now she had to make it back to the surface. She could not die like this, not when she was so close.

She sniffled as she moved, tears pouring down her cheeks in torrents, her arms trembling, her legs shaking. Why did Madame Giry do this to her? She didn't understand. She felt another finger get pricked by the sharp stone edges but she keeps going. If she sat down again she would not get back up and she needs to get back to the surface. She wanted to be back on stage under the warmth of light, bright candles burning everywhere warming her cold skin.

She let out a shriek when she felt a hand close on her wrist and yank her away from the wall and into darkness. She collided with a hard body, cries still leaving her throat as she feels herself being lost in a void, anchored only by this being that as seized her so violently. But a cold hand closed over her mouth, fingers pinching her nose. Her chest exploded as it screamed out for oxygen. She tried to suck in through her nostrils but fingers pinch down tightly. The palm pressed to her mouth smothers any chance she has of getting in a breath and even as she tries to struggle and kick and punch the arm around her waist, effectively pinning her arms down to her waste, proves too strong.

Her head begins to scream, her bleeding fingers sting, her lungs burn, but she cannot get in a breath, and the harder it gets to breath, the harder she fights. Her tears drip down over the large hand suffocating her and she sees white spots dotting the blackness around her. As her vision begins to fail her head feels like it is enlarged, her lungs like they have burst in her chest. Her legs stop kicking, her arms stop struggling. It was as if all her power has left her body. Her brain hurts. Her body hurts. Her lugs hurt. She was still crying but weaker now, softer. The arm around her middle loosened but keeps her limp arms secure.

"Go to sleep now, child," she hears from the end of a long tunnel. "Sleep."

She does.

()

He cradled her gently as he walked through his darkness, making sure her head rested against his chest. He was sure if she were awake she would be able to hear the pounding of his withered heart. Her body was so smooth and soft in his arms, he struggled to believe she was really his. He had only been able to see her in the darkness. Madame Giry had taken her torch away too soon, and shut the door before he could get a good glimpse at her face, and while he could see in near complete darkness, he was still a man, and his sight had been limited. But he knew she would be perfect for him. Madame Giry had chosen well, and he would be sure to pen her a letter, informing her of his commitment to their terms.

When he arrived at his home he brought her through the halls, his heart still pounding in his chest. He moved immediately for his bedroom and toward his bed, _their_ bed, _their_ _marriage_ bed. Tonight he would have what he always wanted. The love he had always yearned for would be consummated with this magnificent creature lying vulnerably in his arms. He lay he down on the blankets, resting her angelic head on the pillows. In the light she was even more magnificent. Though her face was stained with tears she was stunning, a soft glow coming from her creamy skin.

He knew this one. He knew she was not all that skillful at dancing and singing, but she had a talent, a potential for both, something most of the girls here at the opera, whether very skilled in either dancing or singing did not possess. She had never caught his attention specifically, he merely knew of her existence, having seen her when he watched the rehearsals. She was so different than Christine and he was pleased for it. This was a new start, new life for him as a real man with a real living bride.

He reached out timidly, as if touching her would make her disappear, but he could feel her warmth at the ends of his fingertips. Still he did not touch. His hand hovered over her, the sickly yellow skin a stark contrast to hers, perfect, white, and pure. When he placed his hand on her it was to her throat. He rested his fingers on her neck, bare and vulnerable. She was so warm, so soft, he felt like weeping. Never in his entire miserable life had he ever felt such happiness, such pure bliss. He suddenly knew what ecstasy was.

When Christine had chosen to stay with him, when she pressed her lips to his mangled mouth, he had not felt joy, but overwhelming despair. She would never love him, not the way he wanted, not the way he needed. This one though, this beautiful creature sent to him by whatever higher being there might be, he would make love him. She would be his wife forever, until death took them both. She would live here with him, and die here with him here when the time came, and in between now and their death he would have happily wedded bliss with his bride.

He moved his hand down from her neck, sliding over her color bone, and resting over her heart. He felt it beating slow and steady in her chest. He wanted to lower his hand and touch her breast, the small breast of a dancer. After a moment of hesitation he lowered his hand downward to her beast, squeezing it gently, a little sigh leaving his mouth. He reached up and removed his mask, revealing his deformed countenance to the cool air. He could not help himself, he needed to feel her skin. He leaned forward, pressing his face to the side of her neck, breathing in softly.

His happiness hurt. It was so sweet that the joy that bubbled up inside of him threatened to undo him completely. He pressed his face closer to her, wanted her to soak him into her body and take the pain away. He inhaled through what should have been his nose and moved his face up toward her cheek. His mangled lips pressed to her cheek and he felt tears at his eyes. His long fingers tightened around the breast before he removed his hand, pressing it down over her ribs and resting on her stomach. He wanted to grab her and pull her to him but he thought that might awaken her.

"Oh, my angel," he breathed in her ear, tears leaving his sunken eyes. He took one of her small hands in both of his, bringing them to his mouth. He kissed it softly and held it to his face, flattening her curled up fist against his hallow cheek.

He reached down to one of the four posters of the bed and grabbed the manacle. He could not risk her running off and finding her way into the tunnels. Even he might not be able to find her before she stepped off an unfinished ledge or cut herself on one of the sharp walls. He designed the opera so he could not be found down in his home, but it also meant no one could get out. He gently snapped the manacle on her ankle, over the stockings she wore. They were slightly stained with blood, but she would not be wearing them for too long. He would present her with her new dress when she awoke, and then he would undress her.

He tore himself away from her before he lost all his self control. He had waited so long, he could wait until she awoke from her slumber. He moved over to his piano, bypassing the organ. His fingers lowered to the keys and he felt them, cold and smooth. He touched the ivory keys. They reminded him so much of her skin. He pressed the keys down, listening to the hammer strike the cord. It was a deep groan that drowned his ears, a moan of misery. He hit the keys again more gently, moving upward.

He felt tears come back to him as he hit the keys again and looked at his mask sitting before him. How long would it be before he could make love to her without his mask. How long until he could press his face to hers and not hear her weep and cry. It did not, matter he thought darkly, his heart hardening. She could cry, scream, bed, whatever it was she wanted, but he would not relent. This was no Christine. He had no reason to let her go. Her happiness was not what truly mattered. What mattered was his happiness now. He deserved it. So long living alone and in pain, hated and sneered at.

She would hate him, but he would make her love him. He needed it. He slammed his fingers down on the piano. He'd force her to look at his face, kiss his mouth, and embrace him warmly. She would sing for him, dance for him, and serve him as he wanted. He deserved it. He deserved it for the pain, for the humiliation, for everything that happened to him. He deserved it because Christine had left, he deserved it because he could never be the grand composure he deserved to be. His genius was unknown because of the ruin of his face.

He thought of Christine again and his heart split. The joy of only moments before vanished and his frozen heart splintered. He felt rage, despair, heartache. Would the torment never cease? Would he live with this aching hole in his chest until he died? Would the soft warm body of a woman be able to comfort him in his solitude.

"Hello?"

He heard a voice in the back of his mind, a soft tender voice. So beautiful and frightened, nearly a choked sob, but still it was beautiful.

"Hello?"

His fingers slowed on the keys. It was louder now, more sure, but still terrified. He had never heard that voice before. Some said you could not imagine a voice or a face you had never seen before in real life, and this voice he had never heard.

"Please! Is someone there? Why am I chained?" it was a terrified plea for help and his fingers froze on the piano keys. His heart began to pound again, his tears dried on his sunken cheeks. "Monsieur?"

She had a pretty little county accent from the south west of France. He reached for his mask, (his wig was still on his head), and he secured it to his face. He stood, his body rigid and still.

"Is anyone there?" her voice was softer now and he began walking toward their bedroom. "Monsieur?"

His body itched in anticipation.

"Please, somebody answer me," she cried and he heard her sniffle.

With one deep breath and stepped forward one last time, and turned the corner.

()

A/N:

So I was really unsure which deformity I wanted Erik to have in this story, but I have decided to go more along the lines of the book with some elements of the musical, (he will be described in better detail the first time that Nicolette sees him unmasked)

Also, there will be some dubious consent in this story. So I am warning of you that right now. Erik is a very dark character that is a murderer and was nearly going to force Christine to stay or murder the love of her life. So I am not going to make Erik into a gentle man.

And thank you very much The Prince's Phoenix. I hope you enjoyed the second chapter! More soon hopefully.

Please review if you like it! Let me know what you think!


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